


Grief Counseling

by Natasha_Von_Lecter



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasha_Von_Lecter/pseuds/Natasha_Von_Lecter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Swanfireheart's prompt: Belle Investigates Gold's Missing Son. AU Cursed Storybrooke - Detective French has news for Mr. Gold. Good news never comes on a night like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grief Counseling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swanfireheart](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=swanfireheart).



It is not a night for good news. The rain is coming down in sheets, and the wind howls with an inhuman fury. Every so often the din is further punctuated by the drawn out creak of a shingle being torn loose from the roof. He pours himself three fingers of Balvenie, settles down in the leather armchair by the fire, and lets the wind take his thoughts along with his shingles. The weather is remarkable, but the evening is not. This is his routine, more or less, each night. Come home. Sit. Drink. Disappear. It is easier to disappear than it is to think. Thinking leads to reminiscing. Reminiscing leads to drinking more. Drinking more leads to maudlin tears, followed by a vicious hangover, followed by a deep period of self-loathing that can last for weeks. Disappearing is better. 

When the doorbell rings the first time, it barely registers. He does not have visitors often, and visitors to his home are nearly unheard of. Certainly, no one would venture forth in such inclement weather to see him. He dismisses the sound as a trick of the storm, and takes another sip of his scotch. But the bell trills again, longer this time, as if someone were pressing it down, and not letting up. He turns his attention to the door, but doesn’t immediately rise. Even with the mounting evidence that someone is indeed at his door, he can’t quite believe it. But then a startling idea slips through his hazy thoughts and he is up and shambling towards the door. There is only one person he can conceivably imagine coming to see him in such a nasty deluge. It can’t be of course, he knows it isn’t him. He knows better than to have hope, especially on a night like this that’s practically mocking him with wind and rain. Surely it couldn’t be…

He throws open the door and is greeted by Belle French, huddling under a broken umbrella, clutching her purse close to her coat. He blinks at her for longer than is polite – in all honesty he thinks it more likely that she is a hallucination than a flesh and blood woman on his stoop. The lines around her mouth are tense, and her impossibly blue eyes are clouded over with emotion. No, it is not a night for good news. 

“Gold?” 

He knows why she’s here. Why she came to his home. Why it couldn’t wait until the morning. But he tamps down on his thoughts with tremendous effort. He knows they will undo him, and he doesn’t have the strength for it. He steps aside and she enters his home. It seems like an age before he can find his voice.   
“Detective French…are you alright?” 

She doesn’t answer him right away, and he knows. But god help him, he’s not ready. He’ll never be ready. He can feel panic swelling in his throat, and he chokes it down. He reaches for her damp coat, and she shrugs out of it. She keeps hold of her purse but finds her voice “Can we…sit down?”

“Of course.” He gestures to the fireplace and she sinks down on the couch. She rubs her hands together, trying to absorb the warmth of the crackling flames. She looks as if she’ll never be warm again. It’s in such stark contrast to the first time he saw her – teeming with energy, bright and friendly. He remembers thinking that she looked far too young to be a detective, and far too pretty to be good at her job. He’s ashamed of that thought, now. Detective French has proven herself to be dogged and determined – far more helpful than any of the other officers he’s dealt with over the years. The first time they’d spoken, it was obvious she’d poured over the case file before their meeting. She knew the details of his son’s disappearance inside and out. And she had told him, with so much sincerity he could hardly bear it, “I cannot promise you that I will find your son, but I promise you I will never stop looking for him.” He might have loved her then. He tries not to think about it. He knows that emotions only lead to heartache, and he doesn’t think he can take much more of that and still stay standing. She’s too young for him. Too pretty. Far too kind. He knows he’s not an easy man to love, and he’s afraid he’d drain the kindness right out of her. ‘And wouldn’t it be fun to try?” whispers the dark voice in his head that says unspeakably ugly things to him when he lets his guard down. He ignores it, as best he can. 

Belle pats the sofa next to her, and he eyes the spot warily. “Sit with me, Gold.” It’s a command, but the gentleness of her voice makes it sound like a request. He complies, though he looks into the fire instead of meeting her eyes. She sighs, and reaches for her purse. She clutches it to her chest and takes his hand. He feels tears threatening at the corner of his eyes, but he looks up and they momentarily abate. He remembers reading that somewhere once – if you’re about to cry, just look up and let gravity slide them right back into your tear ducts. As if something so simple could hold back the evidence of a breaking heart. Her thumb strokes across the back of his hand, and the simple, human connection is almost too much for him. He can’t remember the last time someone touched him. It hasn’t been a common occurrence for a very long time. Not since his little boy used to hug him when he came home from school. A tear escapes at that thought, and looking up is no help. Belle’s soft voice curls against his pain, “You know why I’m here, Gold?” 

His mind is screaming, “No! Don’t tell me,” but his head is slowly nodding. “You…found him?” She’s squeezing his hand so hard it’s starting to hurt. Belle reaches into her purse, but he can’t look at the item she pulls out. From the corner of his eye he can see it’s contained in an evidence bag, and nothing good can come of that. He hears the thick plastic crinkling in her hand. “It’s too early to be certain, but this was with…the boy. I can’t let you take it out of the bag...It may have DNA evidence we might need later. I really shouldn’t have brought it out at all, but I didn’t want to do this at the station. It didn’t seem right.” 

He can’t bring himself to look at the thing in her hands yet. Suddenly it’s easier to look in her eyes, which should tell him just how close to madness he is. Those big blue eyes, so full of compassion. Compassion for him, which is perplexing and terrifying at the same time. His mind dances away from the topic at hand – it’s too real, and too much – and once again he thinks that she is far too pretty. Too pretty to look so sad, and too pretty to be alone in his house with him. The very ugly voice claws itself up from his lizard brain is whispering that maybe – just maybe he can spin this to his advantage. Maybe she’d let him take her. A pity fuck. Such things happen…

She touches his face and he wretches as he feels the plastic sliding obscenely under his fingers. He looks down, all fear and loathing, to be greeted by a familiar sight. An old linen scarf. Golden once, but now faded and caked with grime. As if it’d been outdoors for a very long time. As if it had been buried. Belle smooths his hair back from his brow, concern writ large across her features. “I matched it to the one he was wearing in several of the photographs you provided. It is his, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t trust his voice. He thinks he’s in control of it, but there’s always the chance the other one will speak in his stead. Hiss something incredibly vile that he can’t come back from. He’s determined not to do that. Not to her. He starts to nod, and finds himself unable to stop. He rhythmically bobs his head up and down, shaking slightly as the world slips out from under him. He’s vaguely aware that he’s crying, but his thoughts are running from him. He wants to catch up to them, but he can’t seem to get himself under control. He hears an awful keening noise, and shudders when he realizes that he’s the one making it. Panic grips him tight around the throat and squeezes. 

“Gold.” 

Belle lays her hands gently on either side of his face, and turns him towards her. “Hey, hey Gold. Look at me, ok?” He feels his tears slide over her fingers and he wants to apologize for being so careless with his eyes. It’s too intimate, these tears of his wetting her fingers. He can’t quite seem to form the words. She drops one hand to her purse. He flinches as she pulls something out, but this time it’s just a mundane orange pill bottle. She pops it open and presses a small white pill against his lips. “Open up. I want you to take this.” He does as he’s told the bitterness of the pill followed by the sweetness of her fingertips as they slip against the tip of his tongue. She reaches for the half full tumbler on the side table, pausing a moment when she notes its amber color. Decision made, she puts it to his lips. “Just a sip. Swallow.” He complies, and she sets the whisky away, taking his face in her hands once again. “Alright. That’s it. Look at me now. You’re going to be ok. You’re having a panic attack, but I’ve given you one of my Xanax. It works quickly. You’ll come back to yourself soon.” He feels like a prey animal – terrified and shaking but unable to move except for the piteous shaking. She smooths his hair back in soft, rhythmic strokes. It seems like an age, but eventually he can feel his rushing pulse start to slow, and the trembling subsides. A gentle haze seems to settle over him. His tears are still flowing, and there is an ulcer in his heart that he knows can never heal now, but the worst of the panic seems to have subsided. He lets out a shaky breath, and drops his shoulders. Satisfied that the pill is kicking in, Belle takes another from her pill bottle and snaps it in half. She holds it in her palm, and asks him “Can I stay here tonight? I’d like to take this myself, but I shouldn’t drive on it. It would be especially reckless in this storm.”

It’s been less than an hour since he last spoke, but his voice sounds rusty with disuse. “I have an extra room.” She tosses back the pill and swallows it down with a swig of his whisky. “Strictly speaking, you shouldn’t mix these with alcohol. It’ll be ok. You haven’t had much. But don’t do it in the future, ok?” He nods mutely, and she takes his hand. She gives him a little tug, and he’s on his feet. He doesn’t know where she’s taking him, but he doesn’t have it in him to fight. He’s already let her drug him. What harm could there be in following her?  
“Do you need your cane for the stairs, or do you just want to lean on me?” The voice in his head tries to make a lewd comment, something about leaning into her, but it’s sluggish and incoherent. She wraps her arm about his waist and helps him up the stairs. She feels good against his side – small but strong, and wonderfully warm. He tries to remember the last time something felt good – it’s been so long since he’s been happy. It strikes him as odd that something can feel good now that the very worst has happened. Now that he knows his boy is gone. He sighs, and then feels a wave of embarrassment as he realizes he’d breathed heavily on the side of her face with his sigh. She doesn’t seem to object, and the feeling evaporates more quickly than expected – no doubt the effect of the drug. He finds it slightly harder to hate himself with the calming elixir in his veins. At the top of the stairs she helps him to the landing. “Which room is yours?”

He points at the door where the hallway terminates, and she leads him towards it. He’s still not certain what her plan is, but it occurs to him that she might be putting him to bed. Any other night, he’d laugh at the absurdity of such a notion, but it makes sense tonight. His suffering is slightly dulled, though he knows it will come rushing back with a vengeance when the drug wears off. He might as well get a good sleep - after tonight he’s afraid he’ll never sleep well again. 

It’s an odd thing to have anyone in his room, let alone a lovely young woman. It’s been years, perhaps a decade, since anyone has crossed the threshold besides him. She presses him back towards the edge of his bed and he sits numbly. And then she is rummaging through his dresser. A moment later she lays a pair of black silk pajamas beside him on the bed. She reaches for the buttons on his dress shirt. He feels he should protest, and brush her hands away. He doesn’t want her to see him like this – old, fragile, helpless. He’s never planned to court her, wouldn’t know where to begin really, but he’s certain that sitting there numbly in his small clothes won’t leave a good impression. She moves to shift his shirt over his head, but he stills her hands. “I can manage.”

She nods, her cheeks suddenly coloring, and steps into his bathroom to give him some privacy. He changes as quickly as he can, laying his slacks and shirt over the dresser. He knows something should come next – brushing his teeth? – but he can’t quite work out the correct order. Belle reemerges from his en suite and looks satisfied at his progress. “Right. I need some tea. Can I make you a cup?” He knows there’s something he should do – offer her a pair of his pajamas or show her to a room she can have but she’s out the door before he can say anything. He hobbles to his dresser, pulls out a pair of navy pajamas and a robe for her, and sets them at the foot of the bed. Then he settles back to wait for her to return. The second his head hits the pillow, he’s asleep. 

In his dreams, he holds fast to Baelfire’s hand. There is a swirling mass of sickly green light that is trying to pull them both under. The dream isn’t new but it subtly shifts. In the past, Bae’s hand slips from his and he disappears under the earth. This time, Gold can’t let go. He holds on with everything he has, and he feels the mud shifting under his boots. Bae screams at him to let go, but he doesn’t. A moment later they are both sliding. Cold wet ground envelops them like a grave. Gold tries to scream, but the earth fills his mouth, stops his lungs, crushes him in its merciless embrace. 

He shudders awake under a firm, insistent hand on his chest. Belle’s blue eyes swim into view, leaving him squinting in confusion. He takes in the tea cooling on his nightstand, the fact that she is wrapped up in one of his robes, and the evening comes back to him. “You were having a nightmare,” she says. The cruel voice in his mind is stirring now – nothing keeps it quiet for long. It whispers that the nightmare doesn’t stop just because he is awake. The voice especially loves tormenting him with the truth. 

“I didn’t let him go this time,” he tells her. 

“What?”

“Every night it’s the same dream. He’s holding on for dear life and I let him go. But I didn’t let go, tonight. I held him tight and the ground swallowed us both.”

And then she’s wrapped around him, holding him close. She presses him back into the warmth of the bed, and slides under the covers beside him. He’s so surprised to suddenly find himself in her embrace that it takes him a while to react. Slowly, tentatively, he wraps his arms around her and lays his head on her shoulder. He is so overwhelmed by the unexpected intimacy that it takes him a moment to realize she is crying. When she begins to speak, her voice is small and faint. He has to strain to hear it. “I had nightmares too, when I lost my mother. It was a robbery gone badly in our little flower shop. We didn’t keep a lot of cash; we were barely making ends meet. When the robber thought she was holding out on him he struck her. She fell and hit her head. I don’t think he meant to kill her, but she landed badly. She was dead before the ambulance arrived.”

He feels ashamed that he didn’t know she’d lost her mother in violence. She’s been so very kind to him and he never bothered to get to know her better. He was afraid to try. She sniffs and continues, “I used to dream it every night. I’d see the angle of her falling, and try to catch her. But I never could. I couldn’t save her. That’s why I became a police officer. I never wanted anyone to feel like that, ever again.” He is out of practice, offering comfort. No one has sought him out for many years, and even then it was only used to soothe a skinned knee or bee-stung fingers. He brushes her hair back from her face, and plants a chaste kiss on her forehead. He feels her sharp intake of breath and braces for admonition, but she merely holds him tighter. “I wanted to bring him home to you, you know. More than anything. Cold cases weren’t my department, but they passed yours along to me. Out of spite, I think. I was the only woman detective on the force and I don’t think they liked me very much. They didn’t offer me any encouragement, just warnings. Mostly about you. They liked you even less than they liked me. They said you were a nuisance. Demanding. Unreasonable. One of them even voiced concerns that you might have been involved in your son’s disappearance. I was frightened to meet you. They’d almost convinced me you were a beast.” He had been demanding. Irate. Threatening. He’d do it all over again if it meant bringing his boy home, but it didn’t win him any allies. He sighs, and lets his forehead drop to hers. He knows this little interlude will end at any moment and will not be repeated. She is kind, but she is not his and no amount of wishing will make it so. He feels her begin to pull away and he loosens his grip to give her leave. She leans back to look in his eyes but she doesn’t let him go. He’s caught there, transfixed, as she lays her hand against his cheek, continuing. “Then, I met you and you were nothing like the monster I’d been led to expect. You looked up at me through your pain and your devotion and your hope and all I could think was that I’d never seen a man so full of love.”

He lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding as she leans in to press her lips to his. It is a innocent kiss, full of gentle kindness, and over so soon he can almost believe he imagined it. Then she pulls his head back down to her shoulder, and she tells him to sleep. He thanks her with his compliance, and when he sleeps he does not dream. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She makes it her habit to check in on him. She leaves him with a fully stocked refrigerator and a gentle reminder to eat. She calls him at night, when she has a niggling suspicion that sleep eludes him. Sometimes she shows up on his doorstep with no warning, a bottle of wine clasped to her chest like a talisman. He does not imagine he is very good company. They talk, but more often than not she does the heavy lifting. Sometimes she can tell he has been crying. Sometimes he can tell that she has. He expects her visits to stop any day now, but they don’t.   
A year passes, so long and yet so soon. He plans to spend the evening drinking himself into oblivion. “Coward,” the voice hisses, and he does not argue. But his doorbell rings and he shudders in relief. He’d dared to hope she wouldn’t leave him alone, and that alone is growth. 

He lets her in, and takes her coat. She is somber, but she ventures a small smile at him. His heart is knocking in his chest, and his mind is screaming, ‘I’m nothing but a wound. All I do is hurt, and I’m afraid I’ll hurt you too if you stay with me in my sadness. You should leave, but I desperately want you to stay.’ But he doesn’t say a word of it. Slowly, he works up his nerve, and he says, “Miss French, may I take you to dinner some time?”

Her smile breaks slowly across her face, her blue eyes positively glowing, and she tells him, “I’d like that.” 

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Whether Baelfire is truly gone or this is merely part of cursed Gold's back story, I leave for you to decide, dear reader.


End file.
